


To Hell With the Gods

by jonsasnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, game of thrones s7, jon x sansa - Freeform, jonsa, mentions of ramsay - Freeform, mostly jonsa, small minor appearance of petyr being a creepy douche, spoilers? sort of, trigger warnings: mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-04 03:27:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11546541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonsasnow/pseuds/jonsasnow
Summary: A moment in the godswood changes Jon and Sansa both irrevocably, as they finally stop denying what they truly want.tldr; or as we know it on tumblr: #treebang





	To Hell With the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really write smut. I had one smut fic prior to this, but I just couldn't help myself. #treebang needed an accompanying fic to go along with it, so here we are. I really hope you guys enjoy it!   
> Please let me know what you think! xx

“When I wished for you to trust me more, I did not expect it in this way,” Sansa said, as she watched him in the mirror. She continued to plait her hair, her fingers deftly running through the copper strands; she found the intricate movements soothing, reminiscent of a time when she sat in this very room as her mother brushed her hair. Left behind were the ghosts of memories long gone and ghosts had no place in the dealings of the living.

“If there was any other way, Sansa, I would –”

“You would stay,” she acknowledged. Gentle, chivalrous, and like father, so bound by his honour. His eyes followed her as she swept her hair over her shoulder. The raven had come not a fortnight ago from Jon’s friend in the Citadel; a Tarly if she recalled correctly. He had written of a mountain of dragonglass down south on Dragonstone. The good news lasted only for an evening, as the following day, another raven arrived to announce the Dragon Queen’s return to Westeros. 

It was no secret that Sansa disapproved of Jon traveling to see her. For four days, the King of the North and the Lady of Winterfell could be heard arguing from battlements to battlements, from morn deep into the evenings, occupying one or the other’s solar until the hour of the bat had come and gone. In the end, Jon could not be persuaded from leaving, and Sansa could not find a just reason for him to stay. 

“And you trust me, Jon?” She met his eyes in the mirror. He moved closer, filling the space between them with the heat of his body. Her heart sped its pace as she watched him studying her.

“I’ve always trusted you,” he said. “There is no other I trust more to lead Winterfell through the winter, Sansa.” His voice softened, as did his eyes. Sansa would be a fool not to notice that this happened frequently in her presence, mayhaps _because_ of her presence. 

“Yet you question my judgement at every opportunity,” Sansa said. She wasn’t looking for another argument. The fight had all but left her since they had come to an agreement. She needed affirmation; she simply needed to hear Jon say it. 

“I was wrong to,” he responded in shame. How a man wielding so much power could look just as distraught as a young boy caught with one too many sweets was an impossible puzzle Sansa had given up trying to solve. She now merely accepted that she would always forgive Jon for whatever stupid decision he made. 

“You are much cleverer than I,” he continued. “There is not a lord and lady who doesn’t know that, and while I’m gone, they will listen to you as they do me. In my stead, you will be their queen.” 

The implication of his words stole the breath from her lungs. Sansa turned to face him. “I am no one’s queen,” she replied. It may have been an idea she had entertained once in another life, but in this one, Sansa was only the Lady of Winterfell. 

“You –”

A knock on the door cut Jon’s sentence short. After beckoning for the maid to come in, Jon took his leave, but not without sending her with one last look. She found she couldn’t read this one, and if by the way her heart raced like a wild horse running through the Haunted Forest, she suspected she shouldn’t try. 

Later that very day, Sansa found her way back to the godswood. Mist curled away from her lips as she exhaled, the heavy furs only just keeping the cold from prickling her skin. She had never prayed to the Old Gods. She had lost faith in them when her father’s head rolled down onto the ground, but she couldn’t explain the desire to return time and time again, the comfort she found in standing underneath the weirwood tree. It made her feel closer to her father, even her mother who had never prayed to the Old Gods, and to Robb and Rickon. When she closed her eyes, she could see their faces smiling down at her and feel their love surround her and give her strength for the days to come.

But tonight when she closed her eyes, she saw his face. She saw him ride south to Dragonstone, where a woman of unimaginable beauty greeted him while three fearsome dragons flew overhead. She reached out to him in her mind, and for the first time in a long time, she prayed for his safety. _Let him return to me_ , Sansa thought. _Let him be safe_.

“My lady, you will catch your death in this weather.” 

Her eyes flew open, instantly narrowing the second his voice rang out in the godswood. He was not appreciated here. His treachery did not deserve to be on her family’s sacred ground. “I am a daughter of the North, Lord Baelish. Winter is in my bones. You, however, should retire indoors.” 

Littlefinger smiled, his lips pushed together like bottom-feeding worms. She restrained her grimace. “Let me accompany you back.” 

“There is no need, Lord Baelish. I can accompany her back.” 

A shadow emerged from the growing darkness as the sun set swiftly behind Winterfell. Jon’s eyes found hers before they hardened and flickered towards Littlefinger. It thrilled Sansa to see the two men in such stark contrast as they squared off with one another. Older and perhaps smarter than Jon, Littlefinger was still no match for the young King of the North. He was not even a quarter of the man Jon was. 

“Yes, your grace,” he said as he bowed his head. 

The second Littlefinger was gone, Jon turned to her. “I wish you wouldn’t keep company with him,” he said. “I don’t trust him.” 

Sansa frowned. “Do you think I do? I am not so stupid, Jon.” 

“Then what does he want?” Jon asked, his frustration clear in his voice. “Why is he always around you, hovering like a bird stalking its prey? I see the way he looks at you, Sansa.” He stepped forward. “It worries me to leave you here at Winterfell when Littlefinger is still around.” 

“I can handle Petyr,” Sansa told him firmly. “I know him. I know what he wants. There’s no need for you to worry.” She reached for his hand to reassure him. “You are the one riding into the dragon’s lair, not me.” 

He appeared not to have heard anything she said. “What is it that he wants?” Jon asked. His look was as fierce as the dragons she saw in her daydream, but where she felt fear then, she found something else entirely in its place, something she’d rather not feel. 

“Leave it be, Jon,” she said.

Jon twisted so he was now the one gripping onto her, his fingers circling her elbow gently. “Sansa, what is it that he wants?” he asked again. It was clear he would not let this go, which left her with very little choice. 

“ _Me_.” 

“What?” Jon staggered back, his fingers falling away from around her. She could see the shock and anger warring over dominance in him. Sansa reached out once more to calm him by holding onto his hand and tugging him back. His eyes were fixed however on the weirwood tree behind her. “Has he –” 

“Asked me to marry him?” Sansa laughed humourlessly. “In a manner of speaking.” 

Jon’s eyes flickered back to hers. He looked panicked. “He can’t have you,” he said. “As King of the North, I can forbid it.” 

Anger surged through her veins, like waves crashing upon a shore, quick and powerful. “I am no one’s to claim. I’m done being sold by men like property, Jon Snow.” Of all the people in her life, she thought he would understand that best of all. Maybe all men were the same; maybe all they saw when they looked at a pair of tits was someone to have and own like a mule. 

“No, that’s not what I…” Jon trailed off. He looked more frustrated than he had a second ago. What war he was currently battling inside of him now was too complicated for Sansa to solve. The silence dragged on. She wondered if he would ever win this internal war, when finally, he pulled her towards him by the hand. “Sansa, he can’t have you. _No one_ can have you. For as long as I am king, I won’t let anyone take you away from here. This is your home. You are not just someone’s property. You’re Sansa. You’re cleverer than any lord or lady in the Seven Kingdoms; you are kind, compassionate and brave. There is not a man or woman honourable enough or gentle enough who deserves you.” 

His chest heaved as he finished his declaration and Sansa found her own breaths coming in short and ragged. It did not escape her notice how they had gravitated towards each other, how they were only a few short inches from touching and how that very knowledge set her heart aflame. “That’s not true,” she whispered.

“No?” he asked. 

“No, Jon, it’s not true,” she said a little more firmly, though her heart felt as fragile as it had been skinned and left out for the picking. She inhaled deeply and brushed her hand up his chest. Jon visibly swallowed. “You’re honourable.” Fighting the voice inside of her head telling her to stop this, Sansa touched his cheek, tracing the scar above his brow. “You’re gentle.” She leaned forward and placed a kiss to his lips, so soft, so brusque she barely felt it. “And when you leave in the morn, I will miss you.” 

Feeling her heart speeding violently against her ribs, Sansa released her hold of Jon. Her cheeks were flushed as she walked away. She could feel the tears threatening to spill over. This was a mistake. She never should have kissed Jon like that. How stupid; how naive; how foolish of her! 

“Sansa!” 

Before she had a chance to turn, Jon’s hand circled her wrist, pulling her around suddenly as his lips found hers and pressed insistently until she could feel the sensation of his touch down to her very soles. His arms wound around her like two great anchors holding her to him, safe and steady. She had been kissed before. Men often took great pleasure in stealing from her what she had dreamt and longed for as a young girl, and in time, kisses became the currency in which she paid for survival, a price she must weather to surface from the crushing depth of her reality. Cradled in Jon’s arms, Sansa knew she had been wrong. A true kiss, the kind written and sung about, was this. It was wild tremors racing up her spine, desire kindling in her stomach and sweet aching in her chest. It was new, but familiar; exciting, but comforting; it was Jon.

“I don’t deserve you either,” Jon spoke against her lips, as he began kissing down the line of her jaw and pushing the heavy furs from her shoulder. When he reached the column of her neck, she gasped. “You deserve better.” He sucked on her pulse point, teeth nipping against her flesh gently. “You deserve someone who can give you a home, a family, something real.” 

Sansa placed her hands to his shoulders to push him back so she could look at him. “Is this not real?” she asked defiantly. 

Darkness surrounded his eyes like a storm in the middle of winter. He looked angry, frustrated, confused, and it should not excite her so to see she was the cause of this state. “It’s very real,” he said as he pushed her so she would have to walk backwards towards the weirwood tree. “Which is what frightens me.” 

As soon as her back hit the rough bark, his lips were once again on hers, more demanding than they had been before, as if he was daring her to stop. But Sansa had long lost the fight with herself over this. She wanted him, _needed_ him in a way that was foreign to her. “It frightens me too,” she admitted. Sansa pulled back again so she could force him to see the surety in her eyes. “But if this is real, I don’t want it to stop.” 

“It’s real.” 

His hands trailed down the length of her body, one coming to cup the back of her thigh and hitch it over his hips. The feel of him against her through their clothes did little to satiate her. It was not enough. This feeling burgeoning in her belly, hot and warm like liquid fire, needed release and Jon was wearing far too much to help her. She tried to tell him by tugging at his breeches, but then she felt his hand clasp over hers. 

“Are you sure about this?” Jon asked. “I don’t want to hurt you. I know that he…” He stopped himself before he could say anything else. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sansa,” he repeated again. 

Even here with Jon, he haunted her. Like a rabid dog desperate to feel flesh and sinew rip in its teeth, Ramsay continued to tear into her even after death, and hearing Jon’s words only forced what she had been pushing away to emerge from the depths of her mind. Sansa closed her eyes. “I will not let him break me. He’s dead and I’m alive. He has no power over me,” she said, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince – her or Jon. 

Her breaths shuddered as she opened her eyes. Where they had been blown wide with desire only seconds before, he now looked at her with such tenderness it soothed away some of the panic threatening to rise. “I don’t want to feel him anymore,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I don’t want to close my eyes and see his face looming over me.” Sansa clung to Jon and kissed him chastely on the lips. “This is real, right? Then I want you. I want you to be the one to erase him from my skin.” 

Jon answered her with a searing kiss that made her toes curl. She grappled for purchase, tangling her fingers in his hair and tugging when it was not enough. His responding groan reverberated down her spine to her core and Sansa couldn’t help the mewl of pleasure from escaping so wantonly from her lips. A flush crimson and bright burned its way up to her cheeks. Never had she thought that kissing could be so pleasurable; or that it’d be Jon who made her feel so much. 

To her disappointment and then subsequent delight, Jon removed his lips from hers to once more trail hot kisses down the line of her jaw, all the while pushing her harder up against the tree until she was sure to find grooves of its bark imprinted in her skin the next morn, a permanent reminder of this moment and all that she felt confined in his arms. 

Sansa tilted her head back to give him more access. He removed his hands from her hips and slowly, tantalisingly traced his way up her body. “I have fantasised about this moment for far longer than should be appropriate,” he murmured against her skin, nipping at the sensitive flesh at the hollow of her neck. He continued further south, reaching the valley between her breasts and ran his tongue along the edge where her bodice met her skin. “I’ve wanted you for so long, Sansa. Do you know how it tortured me?” 

Before she could answer, Jon pulled the strings at the front of her gown with his teeth, leaving her feeling suddenly so naked in his presence. He nosed away part of the fabric covering her modesty and she cried out in surprise when she felt his lips close over her breast. Sansa arched her body into him so that she could feel him more intimately where she needed him most. She felt so brazen in her lust, so desperate in her desire to feel Jon inside her, that she tugged harshly at his curls. He growled and closed his teeth around her nipple. 

“Jon, please,” Sansa panted. She felt him chuckle as he soothed the stinging pain with his tongue, and descended on her other breast, repeating the same torturous motions there. She could feel herself grow damp in her smallclothes and decided to take matters into her own hands. Sansa was far from a maiden, her innocence ripped from her many moons ago, but being with Jon emboldened her, gave her courage where it once wilted. She pulled at the strings of his breeches until they loosened enough for her take hold of him. 

Jon’s breath hitched, halting his motions. “Sansa,” he said, sounding as wrecked as she felt. He straightened so he could cradle her face in his hands, kissing her as fiercely as she had seen him fight in the training yard; with such power she felt possessed by him, wholly and irrevocably. Sansa didn’t know much about pleasuring a man, but she was no fool. The maids talked and she had always been a good listener. 

His tongued licked the seams of her lips until she gave him opening, mimicking a motion she so desperately needed elsewhere. Sansa ran her grip up and down his length, feeling him harden in her hand. The power it gave her over him was heady, intoxicating, like she had complete control over Jon and could bend him to her will if she so chose. She quickened her pace until he could no longer kiss her but only pant short harsh breaths. 

“Stop, Sansa, please.” The request froze her and nearly jarred her from the pleasure curling deep in her bones. “If you wish me to continue, you must stop, love,” he said, chuckling, his hot breath fanning across her cheek. “Or else I’ll come undone in your hands.” 

Sansa smiled. “Would that be so terrible?” 

Jon’s wicked, filthy grin made her heart seize in her chest. He used one hand to slip under her heavy gown and smallclothes. The second she felt his touch against her mound, a flash of panic seized her and she jerked back. 

“It’s okay, Sansa,” he said, keeping his eyes focused on her. “Do you trust me?” She took a deep breath, trying to calm the irrational bout of anxiety clutching at her throat, and nodded. He continued to watch her carefully as his fingers found the little nub at the apex of her thighs. He touched her gently at first, but it was enough to have her bucking up against him. Jon smiled. “That’s it, love. I want you to come apart for me.” 

He continued, pressing more insistently the more her mewls of pleasure turned into frantic cries for release. She chanted his name like it was a prayer, eyes closed, head tilted back against the tree, until _finally_ , the world exploded behind her eyes, a swell of pleasure drowning her so deliciously, so sinfully, so delightfully she wondered if she had lost consciousness altogether. 

Sansa opened her eyes, a slow, languid smile pulling at her lips. Jon’s own smiled looked proud and she blushed under his gaze. “I still need you, Jon,” she murmured, pulling his face down to her lips. “I still want to feel you inside me.” 

Jon growled, a deep guttural sound at the back of his throat that did wonders to the desire still raging within her. He pushed his breeches down to his ankles and pulled Sansa’s gown up as far as it could go. “This may hurt. We can go slowly.”

She scowled. “I am no maiden.” She took hold of his length once more and adjusted herself so she could feel him at her opening. “You don’t need to keep treating me like I’ll break.”

It was all the encouragement Jon need as he bucked his hips and pushed himself nearly all the way inside. Sansa cried out, winding her arms around his neck to keep herself balanced. He gripped her thighs and lifted her easily until she could wrap her legs around him, pushing him even deeper inside her. For a second, Jon stilled, only pressing his forehead to her shoulder, the feeling of wholeness bearing down on them both. But then he began to move, slowly at first, keeping her trapped between his body and the tree, and then more aggressively, more insatiably, his fingers leaving bruises on her thighs. Sansa met him thrust for thrust – a dance between lovers so caught in the throes of their passion that a storm could declare war upon their world and neither would care; both too happy to die in each other’s arms. 

Jon pushed her harder against the tree so he could free one hand to delve beneath her gown and massage the little nub between her legs. For fear of screaming and waking the entire castle, Sansa sank her teeth into his shoulder to keep the cries at bay. The action only seemed to spur Jon even more as his movements became more erratic, more frenzied. She could feel her pleasure building up as it did before, each second pushing her to the brink. “Jon,” she gasped out. “Jon, _please_ …” He answered her by thrusting harder and faster. When Jon dipped his head down to capture her nipple in between his teeth, she came apart instantly, crying out into the empty godswood, as waves of pleasure rolled over her again and again. 

“Oh gods, Sansa,” he grunted, his lips finding hers once more, kissing her like nothing at all in the world mattered but this moment with her. “I…” Whatever it was that Jon was about to say was lost to them as his own pleasure spilled into her, making her feel strange and wonderful in spite of the sticky liquid dripping down her thighs.

Once she had managed to regain control of her breathing, Sansa kissed him on the nose, her heart caught in her throat. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” he asked, laughing softly at the look in her eyes. He gently placed her back on her feet, but the second he slipped out of her, she felt empty, vacant like an ache for something she had lost. He must’ve felt similar as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“For showing me that it could be like this,” Sansa whispered, holding back the unbidden tears from streaking down her face. “For giving me back what he had stolen.” She kissed the edge of his lips. “For being you.”

Jon’s inexplicable, one part awe and one part disbelief. Finally, it warped into the fond smile she so loved. “Then I should thank you too for being you; for letting me be there for you.” 

It took the last of her strength to rein in her tears. She would not soil what was a beautiful moment between them with emotions she couldn’t even explain. Only after he was gone in the morn would Sansa allow herself to them.

As if reading her mind, Jon pulled back to capture her lips once more. “The war is coming and tomorrow I’ll be gone. For how many moons, I don’t know. I could die out there –”

“Jon, don’t,” she breathed out.

“No, Sansa, it’s true,” he said with just a hint of a smile. “I may die and I may never see you again, and that thought scares me more than the Night’s King.” He paused, as his smile widened, turning softer, sweeter. “They say I was brought back by fire, given a second chance at life by the Lord of Light. I believe in no faith but the Old Gods. But I cannot deny any longer that my heart feels on fire when I’m near you. Mayhaps it is you that brought me back.” 

“Do you not worry about…” Sansa trailed off.

“I don’t care what the Old Gods or the new may think of us. What they stole from our family has been payment enough,” he answered. “But I would understand if you felt this was a mistake. I would not be angry with you for thinking that way.” 

She exhaled shakily. “To hell with the gods, Jon.”

His responding smile was brilliant and bright. “Yeah,” he chuckled, as he kissed her joyously. “To hell with them.” 


End file.
